


Blinding

by Selitos



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Sex, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-22 23:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19139020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selitos/pseuds/Selitos
Summary: No use crying for a body in the garden.Keith's self-imposed exile is interrupted by an Altean waif.





	Blinding

 “Ah, _Shiro_ ,” Keith gasped softly into the rough homespun sheets. His orgasm thundered through him. A fortnight’s worth of pent-up frustration splashed across the bed. For a single, blinding moment, he was able to revel in the familiar sensation of the larger man thrusting into him. Keith pushed back against his lover to draw out his climax as long as possible.

Before reality set in. The grunts of his partner were too guttural, too coarse. He didn't move with the rhythmic precision Keith remembered. His cock was nothing to be ashamed of, but didn't make Keith feel gloriously, deliriously full.

Simply put, Rolo wasn't Shiro. As always, the painful fact became undeniable after Keith's afterglow faded. He found himself both oversensitized and detached as he waited for Rolo to finish. A minute later Keith felt the telltale burst of slickness within himself. Rolo let a strangled groan as his thrusts stuttered to a halt.

Keith hardly let the man regain his wind before elbowing him off and away. Rolo chuckled softly. He reached over to drag a fingertip down Keith's spine to his tailbone. “Damn, kid, you get sweeter every time,” the guardsman said. He relaxed on the straw mattress as Keith moved to the room's small washbasin.

He didn’t reply, but neither did Keith attempt to hide himself as he washed. He pulled the washrag slowly over the places Rolo loved to caress, his muscled stomach, his round ass. Catching the renewed hunger in Rolo's eyes, Keith allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk.

“I wish you didn't have to leave.”

Keith carded a hand roughly through his damp hair before tying it back. He needed to cut it soon.

“I worry about you, out there all alone in that hermit shack.”

It took some searching for Keith to find all his clothes. His rendezvous with Rolo always started... exuberantly.

“Nyma said the apothecary's looking for a new apprentice.”

Finally Keith answered. “Half the town thinks I poison their wells and curdle their milk. Who'd come to me for cures?”

“I would,” Rolo offered promptly.

Keith finished dressing. “Oh, planning on getting hurt enough to support me all on your own?” he asked with a sad smile. Briefly, Keith let his eyes drink in the sight of his lover wantonly splayed out. If only he didn't have a hangman's noose looming over his head, perhaps Keith could stay.

He tied his tattered cloak around his shoulders and prepared to leave.

A hand pulled him back. Keith felt thickly muscled arms encircle his waist. Rolo pressed the side of his head to Keith's hip, face looking toward the floor. “I like you and your witchy ways,” he muttered. “Done right by me and the town, don't care what some fools say. There's a place for you here, if you want it.”

“Thanks Rolo,” Keith said. “But I-I can't...” He sighed and continued in a monotone. “The work's too important. I'm close to a breakthrough.” He pulled himself free.

Rolo nodded slowly. As Keith reached the door he called out. “The Eriksons lost a couple head of cattle this month. Anyone with sense knows it's sweet clover sickness, but the cheap bastards have been listening to that zealot priest from the city. Their entire clan's gone twitchy, looking to point fingers.”

“Death’s Breath,” Keith swore. “I'll take the north gate out and circle around. Thanks, for everything.” He closed to door softly behind him.

Keith trudged down rickety stairs to the inn's common room. Despite the early hour, half a dozen regulars slumped in their chairs surrounded by spilled beer and scattered coppers. The barkeep glowered at Keith as he picked his way across the uneven floor, but she was a mean old hag who looked at everyone with the same suspicion. Keith found some comfort in that.

He stepped out into the empty street, needlessly shielding his eyes from an overcast sky. Keith squinted at the clouds rolling in from the west. “Absit omen,” he muttered.

A pop of displaced air and flash of light drew his attention back to earth. A dull brown hound taller than his waist stood beside him. “Hey Kosmo,” Keith greeted. As he scratched the glamoured wolf behind the ears, he noticed Kosmo was wagging his tail a little too forcefully. Keith crouched down and found chicken feathers stuck to the beast’s muzzle. “Dammit boy, again?!” he exclaimed.

The wolf affected a perfect study of canine contrition. His mark didn't buy it for a second.

Keith sighed and dug for his purse. He pulled out a heavy silver talent. The coin was old, its black patina thick and uniform, the rough face stamped across one side recognizable only to a historian. “We pay for what we take,” Keith said. The phrase carried unusual weight, as if it were a mantra. He gently set the coin between the wolf's teeth.

Kosmo disappeared in another muted flash. Waiting, Keith tried to judge the sun's position through the clouds.

The wolf returned, absent the coin and chicken feathers. “Something tells me I'll be exorcising a henhouse next visit,” Keith predicted. Kosmo woofed happily.

Keith set off towards the general store, one of the few shops not run by a local, and therefore one that took his ancient coin. There he collected a battered handcart stacked high with the provisions ordered the previous night. For a few minutes Keith sorted through his purchases, verifying that everything was present and shifting crates to improve the two-wheeled wain's balance. 

Once he could lift the handles with little effort, Keith slowly made his way to the north gate. Now matter how well balanced, two week's worth of supplies was no trifling burden. The cabled muscles of his arms strained as he dragged the great weight down the cobbled road. At the north gatehouse, a pair of guards spat at Keith's feet and made warding gestures against the evil eye. His only response was to commit their faces to memory. Perhaps he would ask Rolo to meet them in the sparring circle.

The thin grey cloud cover did little to block the sun's heat. A barren field half a mile wide surrounded the town, where logging had cut a brutal scar into the land. Every visit, Keith felt that the cool respite of the forest retreated further away. By the time he reached the safety of the woods, dark patches of sweat spread from his underarms and collar. He finally stopped at a familiar turn in the road. Keith glanced over his shoulder to confirm that the town was out of sight.

He carefully lowered himself to sit against the cart's tall wheel. Keith sipped slowly from a waterskin as he waited for the burning in his limbs to fade. Kosmo joined him. The young man reached up to pet the hound. The dog's image blurred, melting away until the wolf's true shape reasserted itself. Gone was the mundane, if rather large, hunting hound. In its place sat an alien beast. With lambent yellow eyes and a luminescent cerulean mane, the wolf clearly belonged to another place, another time.

Once rested, Keith turned his attention back to the cart-full of supplies. He withdrew a leather travel bag with a wide mouth and broad strap. One by one, Keith packed every item on his cart into the bag. Sacks, crates, and barrels, they all disappeared into the satchel. The wain was stored in a convenient thicket. He used both hands to try lifting the rucksack, out of curiosity. The combined weight of all his purchases defied his attempt. Keith shrugged and spoke an unutterable word. Casually setting the bag on one shoulder, Keith hiked westward into the forest with his wolf in tow.

 

“No, no,  _ no _ ,” panted Lance. He leapt over a broad fallen bole thicker than his waist, barely keeping his feet. The youth managed half a dozen strides before nearly collapsing. He leaned against a tree and desperately tried to regain his wind. Blood dripped steadily from a deep gash on his forearm.

The branch he'd vaulted over exploded into flinders. A hulking armored figure stood amongst the setting dust. Its empty visor locked onto Lance and it lurched forward with a shriek of unoiled hinges. A bare blade dangled from one hand, already stained red.

Terror gave Lance a surge of renewed strength. He spun away into another mad dash through the forest. The crashing sounds of his pursuer was his only guide. North or south, east or west, he no longer cared which direction he fled. 

Over an hour had passed since he'd accidentally awakened the iron abomination. The creature wasn't as agile as Lance, but it smashed through every obstacle he danced around.

When he felt that he gained enough distance, Lance stopped to rest again. The great hummocked roots of an ancient tree formed a natural hiding place. He grabbed for his leather canteen only to realize that it, and his pack, was missing. “Fuck!” Lance peeked at the wound on his arm. He immediately squeezed his eyes shut, fighting a wave of nausea. It didn't look too bad, but the sight of blood, especially his own, turned his stomach. Lance wracked his memory for what to do. His sister Veronica had insisted that her baby brother receive extensive training before his pilgrimage. She had taught the lessons on cleaning and binding injuries personally. Lance vaguely remembered something about boiling water. Was he supposed to wash the cut with the boiling water? That didn't sound pleasant.

In all his travels, the youth had never needed such mundane skills. A healing salve gifted to him by Allura herself had cured all his hurts.

A salve in his missing pack. Along with his water, his food, his bedroll, his compass, his flint...

Lance bit his lip, eyes darting around the patch of empty forest before him. Could he go back? Try to avoid the golem and retrace his steps? Maybe he would remember Veronica's lessons on tracking and reading sign?

Gooseflesh broke out along Lance's arms as he realized that he could no longer hear the iron monster. How long had the woods been quiet? He strained his ears, focusing on catching the slightest sound. The surging rush of his heartbeat in his ears overshadowed all other noise. With agonizing slowness, Lance rose up into a crouch. He mapped out a path forward. There was a dense thicket of young trees that would slow his pursuer if he could-

The monster's heavy broadsword cleaved down through the wall of roots to Lance's left. It tore through his outer thigh before embedding into the forest floor. Lance jumped away only to have his leg buckle. He lay dazed on the ground, all sense eclipsed by the incandescent pain that consumed his injured limb. Ages seemed to pass before he could lift his head to find his killer. It remained a dozen steps away, stubbornly trying to free its sword from the snagging wood.

After failing to simply wrench the weapon clear, the ensorcelled armor lashed out with a plate-mail boot. The ancient blade shattered halfway down its length. Lance dully watched the mangled sword end swing about and be pointed straight at his throat. The creature resumed its inevitable march. Ten feet away. Seven feet. Five.

A blue flash struck the monster in the chest, knocking it away. The void within its helm seemed to blink. When the apparition tried to rise, it was staggered by another bolt of azure light. After the third impact, Lance's defender materialized above him. A wolf nearly the size of a pony snarled viciously as it crouched over the youth.

The iron figure took a step forward.

A knife shot out of the shadows behind Lance. It punched into the sentry's chest and drove the creature back against the tree Lance had used for shelter. The youth’s heart leapt to his throat as his attacker staggered. With glacial slowness, the sentry reached up to grip the weapon by its pommel. Sparks danced around the entry wound.

An impossible word clawed at reality. The dagger became a sword that impaled the metal creature. Flashes of virulent light burst from its chest as it shook through its death rattles.

Lance twisted onto his stomach to find his rescuer. All he could see was the shadow of a dark figure with a deep cowl. He yelped as the stranger roughly stripped of his belt and tore at his breeches. “W-what are you doing?!” Lance asked, panic in his voice.

His rescuer answered as he ripped apart Lance's pant leg to expose his newer wound. “Saving your life. Again.”

Lance made the mistake of looking down. The sight of blood,  _ his _ blood, made grey creep around the edges of his vision. He barely felt the raven-haired man slip the belt over his leg, nearly to his crotch. When his head cleared, Lance found the ends of his belt knotted around a stout stick. Blood still pumped from his wound. "Oh gods below, I don't even know your name and my life's in your hands," Lance rambled.

"Name's Keith." The stranger hesitated for a moment. "It's not tight yet. I'm sorry," he said. The last words sounded rough, as if they hadn't been spoken in a long while. He wrapped his fingers around the wooden rod. Before Lance could question what was happening, his rescuer sharply twisted.

Lance's vision flashed red. A helpless gasp punched its way out of his throat. He counted five heartbeats before he could breathe again. By that time, the stranger was tying strips of cloth from Lance's pants to cover the wound and secure the tourniquet. "There," he said. "Now you won't bleed out. But that belt needs to come off within a watch or you'll lose the leg."

"My pack!" yelped Lance. He didn't like how pale his limb looked. "I dropped it maybe two leagues to the east. There's a healing salve in it."

Their gazes met for the first time, Keith seeing the glowing marks on Lance's cheeks. "Gods, you're Altean." Keith grunted. "I hope you know an alchemist." He whistled sharply. The massive wolf that had distracted the sentry trotted over. "Kosmo, fetch."

The wolf looked between the two men. He leaned down to lap at the cut on Lance's arm. In a flash of light and clap of thunder, Kosmo vanished. The same sound rumbled in the distance as the wolf warped again and again, searching. He reappeared, holding Lance's pack.

"Yes!" Lance grabbed the satchel and began rooting through it. He tossed it to the ground, cradling a porcelain jar. With trembling fingers, Lance unscrewed the lid.

"Uh... Is that enough?" asked Keith. A tiny crescent of golden yellow salve hugged a short span of the jar.

"Maybe for a hangnail," Lance answered glumly. He prodded at his hurt leg, below the tourniquet. The flesh was like clay; he felt nothing. What did he use the last of the salve on? A sprained ankle?

Keith stamped around the clearing, cursing in the same ancient language that raised the hairs on the back of Lance's neck. He only stopped when the wolf roughly shoulder-checked him. "Oh don't you sass me," Keith snarled.

Kosmo sat and howled a small  _ aaroo! _

"Sarcastic little shit." Keith tore his blackened knife out of the sentry's corpse. He turned to Lance. "We'd never reach town in time. My home is closer, and I can help you there."

Without another word, Keith hoisted Lance over his shoulder. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment! It's the surest way to get more chapters.


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